


secundum dominum

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Dubious Consent, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Power Dynamics, Slavery, implied exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6489610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perron has been accused of being a slow learner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	secundum dominum

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [qui imperat?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4486395) by [fyborg23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23). 



> A sort of a sequel to _qui imperat?_ , the same warnings apply to this as the previous fic.
> 
> Warning for, well, Roman culture and semi-accurate reinterpretation thereof! Refer to tags for further information.

Perron has been accused of being a slow learner. Many times. As a child, Latin sat awkward on his tongue until the reed beat it out of him. As a boy, the blade slid out of his hand until his tutor bent him to the task of mastering it instead of treating it like a snake. His first decanus had made him march on no bread and little water until he could go an entire league without tiring.

Being an _equites_ , wrapped in a toga instead of buckled up in metal and leather, is almost easy compared to being a _master_. Being a master is still a struggle. Especially when he has a slave like Kris of Gallia Aquitania, more able than he at navigating the spider web of villagers and citizens, proud as his hair is long, and his lines drawn as fine as his face is. Perron knows what a good, proper Roman citizen must do with such an arrogant slave. Knows what works best for slow learners, and Kris is surely an supreme example of one.

Why should a slave be so insolent in asking Perron what his bidding is as he kneels in front of him with a sly smirk on his face? Why should he fasten Perron’s sandals with his hands so high up Perron’s thighs? Why should he wear the collar around his neck like one of the gold chains that his tribe makes?

Still, Perron does not beat him. Kris is a poor slave. Perron is a poor master, and he supposes that suits. He should hate himself for being weak for a mouth on his cock-- any whore selling their wares on the streets below the villa will offer _that_ to him. A year after taking the villa as his own, Perron still quite can’t call it _his_. It’s too drafty for Gaul, meant for warmer climes, _Roman_ civilization, and the tiles are chill against his feet. He was in the Legion for years, lucky enough to get fish next to the gritty bread and the poor wine they fed even the officers, and now he feats with his late uncle’s old friends.

Perron knows how to act his class, his duty, truly-- did he not host Rome’s colors for years?-- but this is Gaul. Everyone here is far from Rome, and he’s no more lax in his conduct than the governor appointed by Caesar is.

Still, he is a slow learner. Mastering Kris is a challenge, and _if_ he succeeds, like he should, as a civilized Roman-- Perron shudders at the thought of pressing into Kris, his ass tight around his cock, the imagined pleasure hot in his mind.

Perron eases himself up from his lounge, looks at the grey sweep outside and resigns himself to having to host the governor and his cronies at this villa. It’s not an occasion that merits happiness. They will expect every ounce of hospitality he has to offer, and soil his solarium with crumbs and their seed, besides. Kris leers up at Perron from his place on the floor, a straw broom in his hand at Perron’s sigh, and says in Gaulish, " _Ere_ , you could make it dinner, not dinner and _snatch_."

Perron does not comprehend the final Gaulish word until Kris makes the fig with his hand, wriggling his thumb in between his fingers slowly, drawling, “Or do you Romans only see them in murals and in cold marriage beds?”

Dull red flushes through Perron. He knows he must beat Kris for being so impudent, for impinging on his manhood, implying he’s weak for a cock up his ass. It’s rather inconvenient that they both remember Saturnalia so _clearly_ , that one moment Kris _fucked_ him, mastered him–

Perron presses his clothed cock against Kris’ face, his stubble catching on the fine cloth of Perron’s toga, and keeps him pressed in between his legs with a firm hand woven through Kris’ dark hair. Kris’ shoulders tremble, and Perron sees him clench his fists against his tunic. Neither of them say anything when Perron finally lets go.

Perron feels the burn of Kris’ eyes on him when Kris slips out of the room with a slight, _mocking_ bow.

Perron is not foolish enough to hope _that_ would have reformed Kris. Indeed, as the feast draws closer, Kris comes to him, wearing only a strip of cloth around his hips, and asks, " _Ere_ , may I go to the baths?"

Never let it be said that Perron cannot keep his slave clean and fed, but Perron raises his eyebrow, “You attended me at the baths just yesterday. Surely you were able to see to yourself then.”

Kris rakes Perron with a glance, and steps closer, close enough that Perron has to strain his neck to look up at Kris. Kris says, “I would dare not offend the governor, _ere_.”

“Then have the kitchen boy oil you, vain slave,” Perron says, waving a hand as he leans back against the hard arm of the couch. Kris shows his teeth, and says, “He can’t be spared, the dormice need roasting and Fache is in disarray over the feast tonight.”

Perron grits his teeth, “Get the oil then. _My_ slave should look good,” the words almost ash in his mouth. The smile Kris gives him is a stab, and Perron resents how much it becomes Kris to be vengeful. Only because Perron is a proper Roman, and not because Perron is a _slave_ to his lusts.

It does not take long for Kris to reappear with an ampulla in his hand, and Perron stands up. Kris licks his lips, and Perron pushes down at the small knot holding together the skirt around Kris’s thighs. Neither of them look down at the fall of the cloth on the tiles, and Kris presses the ampulla in Perron’s hand.

“Turn around,” Perron says, almost as if he wants to spare himself from Kris’ eyes. The oil skims on against the broad lines of Kris’ back, and Perron realizes it’s the same oil he uses on himself, dear and expensive and almost ill-suiting. Of course it suits Kris well, heavy enough for him, and perhaps they will think that Perron has enough wealth to make his property even _nicer_. Perron allows himself to keep touching even after the oil presses thin under his fingers.

Kris turns back around to face him, his eyes downcast like a proper slave, and Perron knows it’s all falsehood. The leap of Kris’ pulse underneath his fingers makes it easy for Perron to keep touching Kris, to stroke his way up to Kris’ firm throat and linger there for a moment. Kris watches Perron through almost-closed eyes, and the glint in them makes Perron hurry through the rest of the oil. Kris has fine arms, thighs that would be the envy of a legionnaire, and Perron doesn’t touch Kris’ cock, half-hard and flushed a deep red. Perron’s hands stop at the top of Kris’ thighs, and he makes himself step back.

The feast is in a few hours, and it wouldn’t do to ravish his slave’s thighs with what little is left of the oil. Kris curls his lips up, bows just long enough to be mocking, and presses his cloth loosely over his cock, before he leans close to Perron and says, “I shall attend you shortly, _ere_.”

He walks out, his ass bare and _glistening_ , leaving Perron with his toga tented over his own cock. It is not difficult to call this Kris’ revenge-- but it’s difficult to imagine Kris is _done_.

Kris comes back, in a light grey tunic that Perron vaguely thinks is _his_ , with a toga over his arms and a calm face that makes Perron seethe internally. The toga’s made out of fine cloth, so fine it’s almost sheer, and the red that borders it a vivid color, something that will be suitable for the _second_ finest toga in the triclinium next to the governor’s himself. Perron takes a deep breath, and lifts his arms in a silent order for Kris to put the toga on.

Perron ignores the blush that creeps across his face, like he’s a green recruit, and Kris quirks a smile before he drapes one end of the cloth over Perron’s chest, stroking down to make sure the pleats lie flat before he wraps it around Perron’s torso. Kris slips the other end over Perron’s arm, and steps back.

Perron licks his lips before he asks, “Does it suit?”

Kris says, “Just as much as the man inside it, _ere_ ,” and leaves. Perron doesn’t glance at the silvered disk of bronze next to his bed before he leaves his quarters. Kris may be a poor slave, but he still has _pride_ , and wouldn’t suffer having his supposed master look poorly.

The governor, Camillus Cassian, is the perfect picture of floridness. The thin purple band around his toga is rivaled by his face, more purple than the emperor’s own togas. It is good, Perron supposes, that they are so far from Rome. The current Emperor is very jealous of his right to wear the purple.

The triclinium is lit and ready for them, and Camillus Cassian levers himself down onto one of the couches, his hand out already for wine. Kris steps forward to serve him, and Camillus raises his eyebrows, taking in Kris’ broad chest and the stubble that not even the sharpest blade can rid his face of.

“Your cupbearer’s a bit old, eh?” Camillus booms, and Perron presses his lips together in a thin smile.

Kris gives the governor his measure, and goes around the room silently with the large cask of wine. Perron sees Kris’ eyes flash with anger, but it’s just that, a flash, and it goes as soon as it comes.

Kris pours Perron his wine last, holding his wrist steady as he pours into his cup. Kris runs hot, and anger always makes him run hotter. They glance at each other, quick, sharp. Perron eases himself back down, does not look back at Kris’ retreating back in the short tunic that shows off his legs to splendid effect. He sips from his own cup instead. The wine is good, sweet and heavy on his tongue, and he wishes he would not have to offer this to Camillus.

The feast is excellent, the peasants crisp and greasy, the dormice stuffed and spiced, and yet Perron picks at it. The company is lacking.

Camillus is as leering as his face suggests, Manlius Tacitus lives up to his cognomen, and Aurelianus Maximus holds forth on the most well-worn story he has: seeing the salted ruins of Old Carthage, supposedly stark against the desert centuries later. Perron has to drain his cup to keep from exclaiming his amazement at Aurelianus Maximus’ sharp eyesight uncovering what surely must be _pedes_ of sand and ashes.

Perron stands up, excuses himself to get some fresh air, and gets sympathetic grunts from the dinner party before he leaves. There’s still too much of the Legions in Perron for him to drink until he vomits-- wasteful!-- but he will take this excuse as a respite. Kris steals upon him like a cloud across the moon, and Perron turns and sees his eyes shine in the low torchlight.

" _Dominus_ ," Kris says, and Perron presses himself back against the column. Kris hates the word, and he wouldn’t use it freely. Perron swallows, and whispers in his poor Gaulish, “They are watching?”

Kris kneels in response, a smirk creasing his face. Perron tilts his head back in a swift inhale, seeing Kris’ dark head so close to his cock. His heart is pounding hard, and he still hears _everything_ , prays to the gods that none of the men can see anything–

Perron’s chest goes tight when he feels Kris lift his toga up, slowly up past his knees, and slides underneath the light drapes of the toga. Fuck, Kris doesn’t want to wrinkle it, and Perron shudders when Kris presses his hot breath against his cock. Even with the wine heavy in his veins, he still responds easily, and he presses his nails against his palm to avoid pressing onto Kris’ head through the toga.

Perron presses himself back against the column, and Kris presses himself closer in between Perron’s legs. Even in the dim light Perron sees Kris bob his head underneath the toga, the muffled sucking noises as he slides his lips around Perron loud as the beat of his pulse in his _cock_ –

He moves to press himself closer, and Kris digs his hands into the meat of Perron’s thighs, a bold reprimand from a _slave_ sucking off his master, but Perron doesn’t move to do anything _else_ , letting Kris press his tongue up against Perron’s balls, sucking on the heavy skin there.

Perron bites the insides of his cheeks, holds his breaths in, makes himself breathe slowly, slowly. It’s painful, his lungs prickling from no air, but it’s almost the sweetest kind of pain, feeling Kris swallow around his cock and feeling the edges of Kris’ long hair press against the insides of Perron’s thighs. Perron tastes salt in his mouth-- blood from trying to bite back any noise he’s making-- and it stings every time spit floods his mouth.

Perron can’t do anything else but swallow it, let Kris press his knuckles up against the area between Perron’s balls and his ass, where no one can see it, and stroke it as he rubs his tongue against the wet tip of Perron’s cock, rocking his head up against the folds of Perron’s toga–

Heat snakes up his spine, and he clenches his teeth as he comes, pressing into Kris’ mouth, curling over Kris as he tries to stroke himself off through the toga, fumbling with the folds. Kris swallows around him, hot and _mean_ and perfect–

Breathing again is almost new to Perron, and he watches as Kris creeps out from under Perron’s toga, and he doesn’t get off his knees until Perron asks him to. Kris gets up, and smooths a hand over Perron’s spent cock, his smile just visible enough when Perron makes a face at the thought of getting his seed on the fine cloth.

Kris accompanies Perron as they slip back in. None of the dinner party turn to glance at Perron, or his slave. Still, Camillus winks broadly at Perron when he leans over to pluck more of the venison from the platters. It would be unmanly to blush. Perron looks away instead, and his eyes naturally fall on Kris.

In the brighter lights of the triclinium, Perron can see traces of his own come as Kris leans over to clear the plates, and Kris slowly licks his lips before he straightens up. Perron presses his fists against his toga, and slurps at his wine to avoid replying to comments about _how his cupbearer earns his keep nice and sweet, eh?_

It’s maddening, knowing that Kris’ nearby, knowing that the thin slip that Kris calls a tunic is enough to give Perron ideas, to stir Perron yet again, even after spending in Kris’ skilled mouth. The feast ends, and the governor appears to look approvingly at Perron-- at how he manages his _assets_ –

Perron is a Roman citizen. Of course he would do nothing but uphold the glory and superiority of Rome. Of course.

No matter that behind the closed doors of _his_ quarters, in _his_ villa, he slides to his knees and puts _his_ mouth on _his_ slave’s cock, that he closes his eyes and swallows clumsily around it as Kris snarls at him in the purest Latin.

No matter.

Rome is far, and Kris is near.

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr!](http://www.hastybooks.tumblr.com)


End file.
